CHAPTER 17 #4
After dinner, the gentlemen did not linger long apart from the ladies, because it was not that sort of evening and Elizabeth was not that sort of hostess.
Coffee was taken in the drawing-room. Pom-Pom examined Mr. Terling’s shoes and, finding them neither threatening nor interesting, withdrew without comment.
This was accepted as a favourable report.
Business returned, as Elizabeth had intended it should.
Mr. Hartwood approved of a trial appointment in principle.
Mr. Beaker approved of a trial appointment with weekly reporting, written expenses, repair limits, and no independent authority to promise money beyond emergencies defined in advance.
Mr. Darcy approved of nothing aloud unless directly asked.
At last she turned to Mr. Terling.
“Mr. Terling, if appointed, whose agent would you be?”
“Yours, ma’am.”
“Not Mr. Darcy’s?”
“No, ma’am. Though I should be grateful for his instruction where it is proper.”
“Not Mr. Beaker’s?”
“No, ma’am. Though I should be afraid of his arithmetic.”
Mr. Beaker said, “Properly so.”
“Not Mr. Hartwood’s?”
“No, ma’am. I should report to him when legal questions arose, but if I mistook myself for a solicitor, I expect I should soon become very expensive.”
Mr. Hartwood laughed. “And dangerous.”
“Yes, sir.”
Elizabeth regarded him for another moment.
“One month,” she said. “On trial. You will inspect Cotton Lane twice weekly at first, keep the repair book, report urgent matters immediately, bring estimates before work is ordered except where delay risks injury or further damage, and write down everything you are tempted to remember only in conversation.”
Mr. Terling bowed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You will begin with Mrs. Bell’s damp and Mr. Harding’s yard.”
His face became very serious.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You will not be frightened by tears, flattered by confidence, or persuaded by livestock.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then we shall see what Cotton Lane makes of you.”
Mr. Terling’s relief was not noisy. It came into his face like warmth into a cold room: slowly, and with some disbelief.
“Thank you, ma’am. I shall do my best to be worthy of the trial.”
“I hope you will do better than your best if your best is insufficient.”
He blinked, then saw the shape of the remark and bowed again. “I shall correct it, ma’am.”
That was very well.
When the evening ended, Mr. Hartwood departed in excellent humour, Mr. Beaker in cautious approval, and Mr. Terling in a state of gratitude so tightly governed that Elizabeth liked him better for not making a speech.
He bowed to her, to Mrs. Doddridge, to Mr. Darcy, and even, after an uncertain second, to Pom-Pom.
Pom-Pom stared.
“It is not rejection,” said Elizabeth. “It is only rank.”
Mr. Terling, to his credit, looked as if he accepted this distinction.
Mr. Darcy remained last, because some matters of papers and timing had to be settled and because Elizabeth had, without admitting it to anyone, expected him to remain last. He stood by the drawing-room table, gloves in hand, as correct as if he had never laughed at goats, never eaten her apple pie, never brought a young man into her household and watched him succeed.
“The trial terms are sensible,” he said.
“I am relieved.”
“You do not sound relieved.”
“Do I not?”
“No.”
“Perhaps I am fatigued by livestock.”
His eyes moved to hers. “That would be understandable.”
There it was again: the warmth, the almost-smile, the man beneath the rules. And then, as though some internal hand had drawn a curtain, he stepped back from it.
“I will send the revised forms tomorrow.”
“Must you?”
“The repairs should not wait.”
“I meant must you send them?”
He understood. She saw that he understood. She saw also, to her considerable annoyance, that understanding did not make him less determined.
“It may be more efficient.”
“Efficiency is not always a virtue.”
“No.”
But still he did not offer to come.
The silence stretched.
Elizabeth, who had managed tenants in imagination, appointed an agent in fact, discussed Egyptian antiquities without betraying grief, and preserved civility under the provocation of Mr. Darcy’s correctness, now found herself perilously near saying something foolish.
She did not.
He bowed.
“Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
He left.
Elizabeth remained still until the front door closed below.
Mrs. Doddridge, who had settled again by the fire with Pom-Pom’s evening wrapper in her lap and had missed nothing, said, “Shall I ask Mrs. Albright to keep any notice of the Egyptian Hall, miss, if one appears?”
“No.”
Mrs. Doddridge folded the wrapper.
“Very good, miss.”
Elizabeth looked at the door through which Mr. Darcy had escaped with all the dignity of a man fleeing a harmless exhibition.
“Yes.”
“Very good, miss.”
“And do not look as if I have contradicted myself.”
“No, miss.”
Pom-Pom made a small huffing sound from the hearth.
Elizabeth looked down at him. “You need not take his side merely because he spoke to you first.”
Pom-Pom did not move.
She went to the mantel and stood there, one hand resting on the warm stone. Outside, London had gone fully dark. Inside, the fire was steady, the room tidy, the plates carried away, the dinner successful by every practical measure.
Mr. Terling had passed his examination.
Mr. Darcy, though no one had examined him aloud, had failed his.